


Respect

by Appliciousness



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Magic, One Shot, Urban Fantasy, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:13:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appliciousness/pseuds/Appliciousness
Summary: Prompt: Zombies are used to work in coal mines because they can’t get black lung and are already technically dead, but your hero starts to have flashbacks of their life as a lawyer and starts an undead revolt for better working conditions.





	Respect

He swung his pickaxe at the black vein in the rock, chipping out the coal. His movements were slow and steady. The one beside him was doing the same. Swing, clink. Swing, clink.

His thoughts were pleasantly vacant. This was what he did every day, his routine so ingrained he could have done it in his resting state. But halfway through his work day, he began to feel a chill. He grunted, his work moving slower as his sinew and bone stiffened.

The lumps of coal around him vibrated as they drifted through the air, collected by the black robed mages. The air temperature dropped again, and as he swung the pick axe, his arms nearly popped out of their sockets.

With an indignant thump, he set down his pickaxe, and turned to look at the circle of black robes causing the arctic blast. Every time they cast their magic, it grew terribly cold in the cave and sometimes, even  _ windy _ .

He recalled stepping out of his Ford Fusion on a windy day, wishing the insurance adjuster hadn’t felt the need to meet in the middle of downtown in such awful weather.

The zombie blinked. In a few moments, the memory had faded, and he picked up his axe.

The temperature continued to fall, and the one working beside him groaned loudly. He nodded in sympathy; the cold affected all of them. The one beside him opened his mouth to speak, a rasping sound escaping him. The foreman passing nearby shouted a warning, and the mages cast a spell to put him to rest. After a couple of hours, he would be back to work.

It had happened many times before. Zombies were often sent to rest by the foreman. It was the only time any of them stopped mining. They didn’t need to sleep, and they didn’t need to eat. The zombies rested and they worked. 

It was a nice job for their kind, all things considered. They didn’t have to wander outside in the dreadful cold and rain, killing animals or humans for their warmth. Nobody screamed at them and tried to shoot them with shotguns or horrible curses. They got to be among their own kind, form new bonds.

But for the first time, a new thought came into his mind, as he watched the foreman dumping the resting zombie into a pile in the corner.

_ That’s clearly an OSHA violation. _

He stopped, wondering what that phrase meant. Trying to ignore it didn't help, as several more irregularities popped into his head throughout the day. How the foremen forced zombies into cramped spaces and deep water to mine. How they crossed rickety bridges and descended perilous mineshafts. Many zombies had been injured, even killed...or whatever you called undead death, anyway.

But the worst thing, the indignity that stood out to him the most, was the fact that in bitter months of winter, they hogged all the heaters.

He wasn't entirely sure what profession had been his before his undead life. ‘Workers compensation’ floated around in his head, a job that seemed to involve lots of paperwork and being annoyed. He didn't remember liking it and he didn't want to go back. But as more and more memories resurfaced, it was clear to him that something needed to be done, and perhaps his memories would give him some idea how.

Around the radiator that evening, the zombie brought this matter to the others' attention.

“So…” he began, the word scraping his throat. “Have complaints?”

They were silent at first, which he expected. Talking wasn’t something they did much. Grunts and nods were acceptable, but anything else would have the foreman sending them straight to a resting state. And besides, talking was very uncomfortable and took forever.

The foremen weren’t close enough to hear, however. They’d taken to sleeping in the trucks and watching from a distance. Their nice, warm trucks…

“It’s cold,” said one zombie. “Every day.”

The others nodded.

“Work hard,” said another one. “No...respect.”

A few of them added grunts.

“Want...more heaters.”

The rest started stamping their feet. They only had the one heat source, which he was pretty sure was only left plugged in because it was powering something. And why couldn’t they have more heaters? Because zombies had no rights, none at all anywhere in the world. There was no legal precedent for what they were about to do.

So they would just have to make some. And maybe, just maybe, they had enough skills and memories between them to form a plan...

The next day, the zombies went to work as usual. They swung their pickaxes, chipping away at the coal. Swing, clink. Swing, clink. They waited for the right moment.

Just as the foremen and mages were leaving the area for lunch break, several of the zombies started singing.

“Turn..the...hEAter on.”

Several of the mages turned white, while others clapped their hands over their ears. The foremen looked furious. They waited on baited breath to see which one was causing the offensive sound, but all the zombies were silent.

“Hey, which one of you did that!” declared a foreman. “Cut that out!”

The zombies kept on staring at the foremen and mages.

“And also, get back to work! It’s not your lunch break.”

The zombies slowly got back to work, waiting until the mages and foremen were leaving again until they all stopped working and sang out. “tURN the hEATer oNNNN.”

One of the foremen screamed and ran off, followed by several mages. The remaining mages cowered and hissed. The foremen cracked their rarely used whips, making no move whatsoever to get close enough to use them.

But the zombies did not stop, and continued their cacophonous, terrible, indescribably awful singing until a deaf mage cast a resting spell.

The next day, the zombies went back to work while their grumpy and wary foremen kept a close eye on them. But to their surprise, the zombies were both hardworking and completely silent. Nobody tried to complain when sent into the deep mine shafts. Even grunts were few and far between.

“I told you,” said a mage loudly. “That spell I cast keeps ‘em real quiet and calm. We won’t be hearing anything from them anytime soon.”

About a week later, one of the foremen decided to turn on the radio and listen to some tunes. Out of the speaker rang twenty zombie voices.  _ TURn thEEE HeatER on. _

The foreman screamed and threw the radio across the mine shaft, but the radio kept blasting its cursed song from three inches of coal dust on the floor. Everyone stared at the radio like it was a bomb about to go off, or perhaps in the process of going off, and nobody moved to touch it until a zombie picked it up. He held the radio for a moment, then turned it off and went back to work like nothing had happened.

One very brave foreman finally ran over to pick up the radio, and then threw it into the deepest pit of the mining shaft.

It was that day that the workers decided that something needed to be done. They went to their boss, Madame Josephine, and explained their dire situation. Their boss--a very successful but spiteful witch--was not nearly as sympathetic as they had hoped.

“I don’t care if the zombies start singing ‘God Save the Queen,’” she huffed, rising from her chair. “As long as they’re doing their jobs and meeting their quotas, we are not authorizing any transfers. And for the record, if the singing zombies could do  _ your  _ jobs, I would replace you with them! Bunch of filthy, no good slackers--”

And so, the zombies continued working in silence. Radios were banned from the premises. The foremen cracked their whips into the air just to show they weren’t scared. The mages made the caves extra cold as they cast silencing spells on the zombies, and muffling spells on their ears.

The main question on their minds was: how _did_ the zombies make a radio signal? Did they use magic, was somebody _helping_ them?

Things had just returned to a somewhat stable status quo when Madam Josephine woke up one morning. As she warmed up her cauldron, she decided to turn on the TV and watch the news

A professionally dressed zombie sat at a desk. He cleared his throat.  _ tuRRNNN THe HEAter onnnn. _

“Aiiiiiiiii” she screamed, throwing curses at the tv, before finally heaving her cauldron at it.

That very afternoon, she called all her foremen and mages into her office.

“Look,” she said. “I don't know why the zombies are singing, and frankly, I don’t care. What matters is they somehow have access to a radio channel and a local television station. What’s next, a global satellite broadcast? What will our  _ investors _ think?"

"What if some of them r-regained their memories?" asked a mage. "And they are going to start demanding rights and--"

"Well, so far the zombies have only asked us for one thing, unlike you lot, who ask for ‘breaks’ and ‘taco bars.’ I’d say we should give them what they want before they start asking for more.”

By the next week, fifteen heaters had been delivered to the mines. The zombies were overjoyed, celebrating by stamping on the floor for five minutes. The zombies put away their radio equipment and called off any further news appearances. They worked the rest of their days in the 100 degree conditions, and the mages and foremen came to work in their bathing suits and took breaks in swimming pools. And they all lived happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Zombies are used to work in coal mines because they can’t get black lung and are already technically dead, but your hero starts to have flashbacks of their life as a lawyer and starts an undead revolt for better working conditions.


End file.
